daily traipsings

Hello 28!

2011-12-14T22:21:00.002-05:00

Year 28 is off to a GRAND start... because I am getting published! The book, entitled TRAVEL MEANS FREEDOM, is coming out 12/22/2011 (hopefully) just in time for Christmas. I submitted a short story about my volunteer travel with Operation Smile in DR Congo and it was selected to be published in the book! Proceeds from the book will benefit the charity: water (NGO bringing clean and safe drinking water to people in developing nations).

Want to check out the organization promoting the book? Buy a copy?
http://wegetthere.com

2011 - the night cap.

2011-12-14T21:31:00.000-05:00

My boyfriend Kris would say that 2011 was the year of the pastry (he likes pie; it’s the only thing I can make). I would say it was the year of the weddings. 7 weddings. Meaning next year might be the year of the baby showers. Weddings took us from Put-in-Bay to Wisconsin, from Lafayette to Maria Stein. I now have no excuse to buy a dress for ten years.

I experienced my first Paw Paw Festival. Athens, Ohio. Paw paw ice cream, paw paw beer, paw paw salsa, paw paw soap, paw paw clothing, paw paw cheese, paw paw raw, paw paw clad people, and the paw paw-razzi capturing it all. I had no idea paw paws had so many facets! Nor do I have any idea how to describe what a paw paw tastes like. A cross between a mango and apple or a banana and a pina colada? Looks like a green potato. Delicate like a kiwi.

I had my first collegiate commencement speech. The memory still flares up the ‘ol anxious nerves. The Speech Pathology Department at Miami University, my alma mater, asked me to speak at their graduate school ceremony in May. I couldn’t think of a good enough excuse to say no, and so quivering teeth, legs, mind and all, I spoke about my experiences as a speech pathologist -from departing on a plane bound for India the night of my graduate commencement to present-day working at a pediatric hospital, a place where my patients call me “fun-size” (and their dads “king size") and refer to the hospital as “Mia’s house” – and learning and loving my job every step of the way. Even when my smiling 3 year-old patients with their speech problems sound like cursing adults…”b*tch” for “fish” or “f*ck you” for “thank you.” Smile and nod and hope they’re not handing out my business cards.

It was the year of traveling to countries with questionable motives. New Year’s in Jamaica… the summer equinox in Colombia… No, I am not, to my knowledge, involved in any cartels of any sort. Unfortunately, my new passport only reads these 2 countries. Hopefully my trips in the coming year to Cambodia (with Transitions Global) and Uzbekistan (with Operation Smile) don’t put me on the CIA’s radar. Oh, just googled top drug countries and looks like I should just stay home – U.S. tops the list for world’s largest consumer of cocaine, heroin, and marijuana! (Disclaimer: My only drug of choice is caffeine – mocha-style on Monday mornings, extra whip cream, please. J).

The best books I read this year were “Little Bee” by Chris Cleave and “Ishmael” by Daniel Quinn. I’m still reading the latter and have been for a while but still believe it’ll be topping the list for its thought-provoking writing. These fine literary gems, they have my thumbs up. (To be honest, they were probably the only books I got close to finishing...)

This month marks my 28^th year of living. Looking forward to what my 28^th year and 2012 will bring. Hopefully a more living-in-the-present state of being, greater confidence, continued compassion, smiles & giggles, and a keener sense of purpose.

your life in 3 words.

2010-09-25T20:22:00.000-04:00

If you were to pick 3 words for which you want your life to embody, what would they be?

Mine - compassion, joy, cognizant

Hair Personified

2010-07-27T16:13:00.000-04:00

(a fast-write from today's class)

Patricia is one of those women you cannot identify by her hair. Some days it’s copper ringlets; other days sleek, flowing to the shoulder ebony; then a fro of fuzz, cropped-close like a poodle recently to the barber. Her ever-changing hair wardrobe I could only liken to the shoe closet of some American women. Her hair, an extension of her personality – vibrant, and at times, unpredictable.

Due to my pediatric clientele’s desire for decorating my carpet office floor with play dough, I met Patricia early in my days working at Cincinnati Children’s Hospital. Patricia often surfaced just as I was finishing up for the day, her timing seemingly impeccable. My trash bins she would empty, my decorated floor she would look upon, smile, laugh and shake her head knowingly. It was her accent barely discernible in her laugh that alluded to a background beyond the cleaning duties she held at the hospital. A native of Ghana, Patricia came to Cincinnati by way of her husband, a Ghanaian man living in the States. Friends and family were dispersed throughout the country, but here in Cincinnati, was where she was raising her immediate family.

Having a slight infatuation with Africa - the people, the natural, raw beauty of the landscape, the culture, the way of life and colorful dress – Patricia and I got on well. Quite well. She was observant to the hints of African incorporated into my daily life – the fabric of my computer bag, the dangles from my ears, the swatch of cloth in my hair, or the rare African-printed skirt. For Christmas, she betrothed me with a necklace from Ghana – a myriad of earth-toned beads culminating into an African-continent-shaped stone. A stunning cherished remnant from the Dark Continent, well loved and worn.

In March 2010, having known me 6 months, Patricia remarked one evening, “I would like you to be my sister-in-law.” Thinking that she was being generous with her words, I merely laughed in response.

Then in June 2010, during a therapy session, I heard a knock on my office door. Believing it was the child’s father coming in, I opened the door. But standing before me was not the child’s father, but rather Patricia – early to work that day. As my patient, a 6-year-old boy with severe ADHD and his father watched on camera from the observation room, Patricia explained her presence – with little regard for the audience that was witnessing this conversation unfold.

Patricia: “Maria, Maria! Remember how I said I wanted you to be my sister-in-law? Well, I spoke with my brother who lives in Ghana. He is very excited to marry you. However, I thought it best if he send pictures so you can see how beautiful he is. He wanted me to give you...”

Nodding towards my patient with the door still half-open, I interrupted, “Thank you, Patricia, that was very thoughtful of you. However, I am in with a patient. Let’s catch up later.”

She handed me a large, poster-size envelope postmarked from Ghana.

Shocked, I wrapped up the session as calmly and coherently as possible. The child, ever inquisitive and clever in distracting me from speech therapy, inquired about the person at the door. I briefly explained that she was “one of my friends”, a term I often used to refer to other patients. The father, thankfully tactful or forgetful, did not ask further regarding the intriguing conversation he had likely overheard.

The next day remembering the contents of the Ghana-postmarked envelope, I opened it and curiously retrieved what had traversed an ocean and many weeks to get to me. Enclosed were 2 photos. One, a life-size picture of an African man’s head, perhaps even blown-up to be larger-than-the actual size of his head. The other, another blown-up picture this one depicting an African man clad in traditional-African garb. He looked as if he had taken a bed sheet, wrapped it around his body toga-style, and secured it to his frame with one simple knot. He stood against a car, weathered, with simple open sandals adorning his feet. He looked to be a man – stoic and regal.

Ironically, his identifying feature was his hair. Unlike his sister, this man had hair that was static through the fashion trends and changing seasons. His hair all black, save for a patch above his head – this patch of hair was a sharp contrasting pigment of white. An identifying feature that had earned him the nickname “Snow.”

So what’s next for the couple – one with “snow” colored skin, the other with “snow” colored hair?

The consulted Magic 8-ball reads, “Ask Again Later.” ;)

the finish line

2010-07-20T15:52:00.000-04:00

“When will I be able to run again?” I asked.

(Laugh). “If you’re standing in the middle of the road and there’s a car coming, then you can run,” responded my physical therapist.

My foray into running began as a little girl growing up in cornfield-clad Maria Stein, Ohio. Running down the road, pursuing my cousin’s car as it disappeared into the distance, my legs moving in sync with my waving hand. My cousins, the daughters of my mother’s twin sister, often visited in the summer. At some point it became tradition that as their wheels went down the road, my feet followed suit. Often barefoot along the road, hot with bubbling asphalt, the air stagnant with summer heat, I chased dreams and cars.

Then in middle school my cousin and my twin sister joined cross-country. Wanting to choose a path different than my twin, I became a cheerleader. Being hailed a “rah-rah” by my older sister did not sit well with me nor did practicing gymnastics unsupervised in the family backyard sit well with my sprained body, so by high school, I joined the cross country ranks. I became one of the few familiar with the 5k metric equivalent for 3.1 miles. One of the few who liked to “run for fun.” One of the few who saved up to buy not CDs or new clothes for school but rather a new pair of New Balance running shoes. As a scrawny teenager weighing in just under 100 pounds, standing at almost 5’2, my short legs and bony appendages, never garnered me athletic accolades. My twin sister, 6 inches taller, had the legs for running. She could actually sprint. I chose instead to go the distance.

College came along and I continued to lace up my running shoes. The purple stripes on my favorite pair of shoes faded into shades of grey, the navy and yellow N insignia for New Balance wore off and fell away, duct tape bandaged talking holes, and the shoe treads underneath became smooth, but I kept running. I sprained my knee ice-skating, but kept running, downgrading a trained-for marathon to a half-marathon 4 weeks later. I dislocated my right kneecap playing ice hockey but still walked the hilly streets of San Francisco 3 weeks later, racking up nearly 20 miles in one day whilst loosely abiding by physical therapy recommendations. I acquired a stress fracture in my left foot, wore an orthopedic boot for a month, removed it the day before undergraduate graduation, wore heels down the aisle and then spent 2 months traipsing around Europe a good portion on running feet. Through the aches and pains, swollen joints and ice packs, I played intramural soccer, took up rugby, spent days hiking, and kept right on running.

Then August 9th, 2009 I crossed the finish line.

I had been home but 3 weeks from Africa just in time for a close friend’s wedding in Columbus, Ohio. To the church ceremony and the reception thereafter I went. Shook it all about with the Hokey-Pokey, stepped in tune to the Electric Slide, and got down with the Chicken Dance. Kept the fun going at a bar afterwards with my cousin, dancing with her flatmate and friends until, as some say, “I literally broke dance.”

Bewildered as to why suddenly my bottom was on the floor and everyone else was dancing on two feet, my hand traveled to my left knee. What I felt was even more perplexing. My kneecap had gravitated out of its socket and was resting on the left side of where my knee should have been. Gripped with pain and impending shock, I could not get up. I could not walk. Two men whose names I did not know transported me to safety. One making way for me in the drunken crowd and the other, a rather slight fellow, carrying me. A cab was called and I was whisked away with my cousin to the emergency room of the Ohio State University Hospital.

There in a patient room I sat alone save for a team of medical students and doctors peering at my wayward knee and me. The state of my knee and the state of my dress (fit for a wedding) provided a puzzling picture. The doctors wanted to call in an anesthesiologist to put me under while they pushed the knee back into its socket. Unfortunately, quite sober, I was computing dollar signs in my head for the expense and suggested a local anesthetic instead. The doctor reported it wouldn’t give me the pain relief I sought.

So alas I asked, “Can’t you just push it back in?” Incredulous looks exchanged. Everyone thought I’d taken a crazy pill. Especially when they realized I was being serious. “How long would it take? How long would the pain last?” I inquired. “It would be extremely painful but the pain wouldn’t last long,” one reported. “Well then, let’s get on with it,” I stated.

One well-meaning (but foolish) individual offered to hold my hand during it. I warned him that I would likely break it. Instead, I gripped the wheelchair’s arms; knuckles white, and followed the Lamaze instructions of a sage doctor. “Breathe in through your nose and whistle out your mouth.” And this I did as an audience watched my kneecap being pushed back into its rightful place.

Aware of my pain medication sensitivity (and cognizant of the astronomical inflation of medication in hospitals), I relented to only taking one Motrin after the ordeal. As I had crutches and a leg brace at my parent’s place from my last knee dislocation 3 years prior, I refused to acquire another set. Instead, I left the hospital, my left knee well wrapped in ace bandage, hopping on my good right foot. Without crutches and poor upper body strength, I managed to navigate a flight of stairs and a pair of friendly cats to the refuge of my cousin’s bed where I slept for a couple hours before driving myself the 2 hours home to my parent’s place. Not wanting to worry them, I waited until they had gone through their typical Sunday morning ritual before calling them, letting them know that my crutches would need to be found in the next couple hours, dusted off, and placed where I could reach them upon opening my car door. And per request, hours later, I found them and my father waiting for me as I pulled into my parent’s driveway. My father knowingly shaking his head.

To be continued...

30 Hours in Mumbai

2010-07-06T13:27:00.000-04:00

26/11. 9/11 but in India. On the 26^th day of November, 2008, Pakistani-based Muslim terrorists lay siege to Mumbai, India’s financial capital. Ten coordinated shooting and bombing attacks, killing 173, wounding 308. Well-equipped gunmen singled-out individuals with American and British passports. To be killed or taken hostage. Not a good day to be at Leopold Café, a popular restaurant for foreigners. Not a good day to be an American in Mumbai.

For 2 days, I had travelled by bus from Maputo, Mozambique to Johannesburg, South Africa to catch a flight to India for my friend Sangeetha’s wedding. I had met Sangeetha as a student at Miami University where we had both pursued graduate degrees in speech-language pathology. I was now working in Mozambique; she was planning to find work in her native country of India. But first, she was to marry an Indian doctor from Calicut, India. An arranged marriage that she had welcomed.

No stranger to flying, I had minimal anxiety regarding the impending flight that would take me from Johannesburg to Dubai to Calicut. Even as I watched a crew of Emirate airline attendants attempt to process my e-reservation, my anxiety level registered at 0. Their conversation in a foreign tongue did not faze me. It was when the looks on their faces began to appear frantic and when I heard a brave soul utter to me, “Do not worry, ma’am, we’ll get it sorted” that I realized this was going to be no quick check-in. Then I was pulled aside and calmly told that for whatever reason, my individual ticket had been cancelled. There were no empty seats on the flight. I had no ticket to India.

I was told that I could go to a travel agent but one outside the airport or go online to book a flight. Either way there would be a 2-3 day delay. “Was my flight urgent?” they asked. Odd question, no one travels for 2 days from one foreign country to the next to wait days in that foreign place before departing on a flight to another very foreign place. In addition, I had convinced an American friend to come to our mutual friend’s wedding. She had never left the States. Quite hesitant initially, she finally conceded when I told her I would be waiting for her at the airport and would not leave her side for the duration of the journey. Interpreted urgent or otherwise, I did not have days to get to Calicut, India. I had hours. Tick tock tick tock.

The Emirate airline advice I disregarded. Instead, I walked from one airline desk to the next inquiring, “Do you have flights to India? How soon can you get me there?” I had gone through nearly the whole alphabetical line of airlines (Alitalia, Ethiopia, Kenyan, Qatar) until South African Airways put my fears to rest. They could get me to Calicut through Mumbai. A 15-hour layover both ways. I would miss my American friend’s arrival but I would make it in time for my Indian friend’s wedding. I had one hour to get word to my friends, go through security, and board the plane bound for India. Within 8 hours, I would be in Mumbai. I had little time to prepare. Tick tock tick tock.

The Mumbai international airport is not one of comfort. Due to its proximity to the Pakistani border and the strained relations between the neighbors, police were everywhere. Their eyes everywhere. I left. Upon entering the night heat, I was met by an onslaught of Indian businessmen looking to make a deal. I bartered with a taxi driver, but paid too much. Wound up at a hotel, where again my fair skin and American passport, made me pay too much.

The next morning, still a couple hours into my first Mumbai 15-hour layover, I embraced the chaos of the city. With a hotel staff member, I went in search of a SIM card for my phone so domestic calls (within India) could be made. My friends thus far knew little regarding my whereabouts, only what they could glean from the frantic email I had sent before my hasty departure.

Getting a SIM card in India, I quickly realized was no minute task. Closely following the hotel staff member, my passport in tow per his request, we weaved from one shantytown to the next. Inquiries placed, copies of my passport made, money exchanged. We walked on. After hours of curious perusal by onlookers, I acquired a SIM card. My first foray into Mumbai’s streets, a few blisters to sport and once white shirt now quite dusted, but not much worse for the wear.

I traveled onward to Calicut, meeting up with my friends, having a week of great fun and further intrigues: sitting in the second row for my friend’s marriage ceremony sharing space with the other 1500 guests invited, shopping for saris, tasting dried coconut by the street side, giving free “English” lessons to inquisitive villagers, seeing the countryside by train, exploring the backwater region by boat (as if in Venice), and trying to interpret the characteristic Indian “head bob”, in which Indians actually communicate by way of bobbing their heads.

Then it was back to Mumbai for my second and final 15-hour layover. This time, though, I had a personal tour guide – my friend Sheila. We first met in Maputo, Mozambique where we had arrived within weeks of each other, became friends, and then her hometown of Mumbai beckoned her back to India. With a phone and her number, we got in touch. We had a good half-day to catch up and to see the city – tourist sites and all.

It was now March 2009. Nearly 4 months since the Mumbai attacks or 26/11 as the Indians referred to it as. The targeted sites, many tourist spots, were part of the tour. We passed the Taj Hotel by rickshaw, where 167 perished. We walked past Leopold Café where 10 had been murdered. Bullet holes still blotted the front.

Being here felt so surreal, so eerie. It wasn’t a feeling I welcomed. I walked on picking up my pace. Then from the corner of my eye, I glimpsed an Indian gentlemen sprinting across 5 lanes of traffic. His eyes set on me. My heart stopped. My feet stopped. What the….

“Ma’am! Ma’am! Stop! Stop!” I couldn’t move. One lane of traffic separated him from me. “Ma’am, ma’am! Please stop!”

Now a couple feet.

Tick tock tick tock.

“Ma’am, will you be in my Bollywood movie?” What?!

“We could make a good deal. You be in my Bollywood movie? Yes, yes?” I was speechless.

“We make big money.” Blank look. Mouth agape. Speechless.

My images of the Mumbai attack – fear, trails of blood, panic, ricocheting bullets, horror – diminishing into a montage of shaking hips, stiletto-dancing women. Absurd. Unlikely.

As my ability to form sentences seemed impaired, my friend intervened.

“No, no, she doesn’t want to be in your Bollywood movie.” No. No. No. Indians are well known for their persuasive skills and persistence and the clashing of these two Indians was no exception. My heart was still pounding.

Bollywood dreams dashed, we managed to escape into a bakery with a distracting array of chocolates and sweet confections. My friend quickly forgot the incident. I did not.

I sat on the plane that night, homesick for a land I had not seen in many months, and one I would not see for many more. I was homesick for a place where upon entry I would pass through the line for “nationals” not for “foreigners.” I was homesick for a place where my nationality and fair skin garnered few second glances.

I was homesick for a place where I could just be.

Getting directions from dogs

2010-06-29T16:48:00.000-04:00

I get lost in parking lots. Not just the I-walked-out-of-the-store-and-now-can’t-find-my car lost, but the I’m-in-my-car-driving-laps-around-the parking-lot-because-I-can’t-find-my-way-out lost. Whenever I go someplace new (or well, okay, to be truly honest, familiar places as well), I factor in an extra 30 minutes to account for all the one-way streets I’ll likely drive the wrong way down before serendipitously finding myself on the right one. My maps are “outdated.” My compasses forever “misguided.” And a GPS always next on the to-purchase-NOW list.

However. Born and raised country girl, there is one place I never get lost. Outside. In the woods. My own 2 feet walking down Mother Nature’s highway.

In the woods, I always find my way. Well, 99% of the time.

---

A year before World Cup fever hit South Africa, I decided to explore the country myself. I had 4 weeks to get from Maputo, Mozambique to Cape Town, South Africa. With no car, public buses and my 2 feet were my primary modes of transport. My mission was to hike with the sun’s calendar. As the sun ascended and descended in the sky, I hiked, carrying on my back a small parcel storing water, granola bars, cell phone, and a rain jacket. I ambled along the ocean coastline waters, scaled the mountains, trampled through the grasslands, and trekked beneath the canopies of virgin forest.

One journey brought me to a former horse farm. Given the winter season, I was the only guest that day. Upon inquiry, a woman of great-grandmotherly age gave me a faded map marking the trails in the local region. The map, very primitive in appearance, hadn’t been used reportedly in nearly 10 years. Nonetheless, I took a look at the clear sky, the picturesque landscape of rolling hills blanketed with grazing horses, and headed down a path to the treetops beckoning me in the distance.

When in hike, I quickly lose myself in thought, surfacing only for nature curiosities like a beaver dam or a bubbling creek that needs transversing. Any concept of time passage quickly lost. Hours, miles, and landscapes had elapsed when I came to a clearing in the woods. First I noticed a flock of sheep in the distance being gathered in, then a small furry critter scurrying for refuge beneath a stunning fuchsia color of a flower, and lastly, above, the foreboding dark clouds that had rolled in, without pause, filling the sky.

I calmly turned around following my footsteps back into the woods. First, came a cold drizzle. I trekked on. Then the wind picked up. The trees howled. I trekked on. Then blocks of hail began to fall. I tightened the hood on my rain jacket and trekked on. The sky grew darker. The forest blackened. I trekked on. The earth beneath me began to suck at my shoes. I lifted my feet higher and trekked on.

Then I realized I was lost.

The trek stopped. I pulled out my map. It was of little use. All previous landmarks were being washed away; it was too dark to make out north from south or east from west. So I turned retracing my previous steps looking for familiarity. None.

Calm was becoming fear. Where was I? What to do? Where to next? What if…?

Then I saw two dogs. Wild dogs. They saw me. Thinking (hoping) that the dogs would possess superior directional skills than my own at this moment, I walked toward them. I followed them into a clearing, but not recognizing the area, I left the dogs and returned to the woods. The dogs followed me. But they kept nudging me back to the clearing. Alas, I relinquished my lead and followed them. Out in the open, I was subjected to the wind, the cold, and the harsh rain. More than once, I thought I had lost them. But they always waited, their eyes searching for mine, until I caught up.

Alas, we came upon a camping area, deserted for the season. The dogs led me to a small building, one that seemed fit for collecting park fees and doling out hiking maps. I entered the dry space, searched for an identifying name for the location and found one among the brochures and maps strewn about the floor. Using my cell phone, I contacted the couple I was staying with, provided my whereabouts, and waited for their pickup. As I surveyed the campgrounds, I quickly noted that my company had since left. The dogs were gone from sight.

---

Back at the home, the storm continued to rage on, through the night and into the many hours of morning. I slept little. Neither the rare hot shower nor the warm home-cooked meal could warm me up. The mere thought of being still stranded out there in the elements, in a storm that I later learned blew off rooftops and took down power poles, kept me shivering. Out the window, I kept looking. The dogs never returned.

---

However, I returned. I returned to the woods, continuing my quest, exploring the world on foot. However, added to the parcel that comes with me, often comes a dog. A dog for that 1% of the time that I get lost.

Lude’s Knot of Protection

2010-06-22T12:56:00.000-04:00

June 2010
I looked down at my wrist. The faded bracelet, a red string that had been strung around my wrist 4 times and secured tightly with a knot, had come undone. It was slowly unraveling. With one flick of my wrist, it would be off - gone. And with it, gone, the ubiquitous memory of a person I had encountered 2 years ago, in a life far different than the one I was walking in today.

May 2008
It was a hot summer day in northern India. The monsoon season would soon be upon us. A brief but stalwart rain had begun the morning. The mosquitoes would soon be flocking to our pale skin.

We sat along the wall holding numbers ranging from 1 through 10, all waiting our turn to see the doctor. Each of us waiting patiently yet anxiously to hear our “diagnosis” to receive our “prescription.” The door opened. A short-statured woman, with black hair, weathered skin, and wise, calm eyes, filled the narrow doorway. She requested patient 1. The 9 of us searched the hands of familiar faces. Not one of us held the requested number. Then the lone stranger, a Tibetan monk cloaked in a maroon robe, unveiled, with a devious smile, the sought after number. He chuckled gregariously as he followed the Tibetan medicine practitioner into her office.

Hours later, I stood in the streets of Dharamsala, India, curiously studying the face of a community living in exile. A community grown from a 24-year-old spiritual leader’s escape from his native home in the Tibetan plateau of China to this place of refuge in the foothills of the Himalayas. In the 50 years since, some 80,000 Tibetan refugees had since followed suit.

Despite his familiar face, it was not the visage of His Holiness the Dalai Lama, though that caught the eye of my friend Lindsay that day. Rather, it was the face of a recent acquaintance – the monk from the Tibetan medicine clinic.

Though initially conspiring to take a photo from a distance, we opted in the end to trade in the paparazzi-style attention we’d been receiving in recent days for an attempt at conversation. Beyond the initial Tibetan greeting of “tashi delek,” we didn’t have a clue as to how to proceed.

As if words mattered.

Over the course of the next couple days, Lindsay and I taught our new friend Lude how to blow bubbles. He taught us the Tibetan alphabet. We showed him how to use a digital camera. He made us tea. We showed him pictures of our family. He shared coveted pictures of the Dalai Lama. And we laughed much and often.

During one of our most memorable visits, after a meal of tea (“chai”), peeled potatoes (“aloo”), and bananas, he gave each of us a gift. Around our right wrists, he wrapped a red string 4 times. He tied a knot. As we learned, this “protection and blessing cord” was symbolic of remaining within the protection of his compassionate embrace even after departing from his physical presence. It was in effect to give us strength and protection.

Not long after, our small group of Miami University students who had journeyed to India for a month to learn about the Tibetan culture, returned home to the States. Within weeks, I moved to Mozambique, Africa where I had a job beckoning me. Lindsay returned to Oxford, Ohio to work for the summer and stay on for her final year of undergraduate education.

Despite the distance, language barriers and the circumstances of where we lived, we all managed to keep in touch. Then in August 2009, we received our final correspondence from Lude. Despite the danger of his decision, he was returning to his native Tibet. In his final email, Lude expressed (through a friend who translated his words), “I will call you and write to you after I reached back in Tibet and hope you will also keep in touch with me like before. I will pray for your happiness and success for all of your family members wherever I go. I am also hope that we will rejoin in Tibet.”

June 2010
As the protection cord unraveled, I reflected upon the friend who had bequeathed me with such a gift. A warm, genuine, spirited soul but one whose eyes were marred with sadness for a place he called home. Tibet. A place that was once a sanctuary for Tibetans, now a plateau scarce with natives, scarred by cultural genocide. To return, not a fate many choose.

10 months later. Lude’s silence was telling.

My gut reaction was to retie the knot. I paused. For 2 years, I had worn the amulet. For 2 years, it had been a source and reminder of strength. A reminder that someone out there was praying for me, believing in me and in my protection. I had worn it through my year living in Africa and my return, through knee surgery and its recovery, through finding love and losing it, through ups and downs and a myriad of emotions in between.

Lude had held my hand, given me strength when I needed it but now…. Now, I realized –
I could stand on my own.

With one flick, my wrist was freed. And in some small way, so was I.

Passion + Action =

2010-06-16T19:17:00.000-04:00

Maria finally signing up for a writing class.

For years my friend Mindi has been encouraging me to really run with my writing. My twin sister is forever supporting and getting excited about most anything I do (I imagine her hand-clapping and giddily jumping on the other end of the phone down there in Austin, Texas). So alas, I listened. Embraced my generally proactive self, and signed up to join a summer workshop with Women Writing for a Change. Never mind that I was behind schedule 1 week syllabus-wise, last night, the 15 member crew welcomed me with open arms and big smiles. Despite all the nerves and self-doubt going into it, I really enjoyed myself. I can't wait to take on the pen and paper for next Tuesday's class.

So hopefully the blog silence of the past year remains just that - the past.

My writing voice shall be quieted no more!

Sharing Smiles in the Congo :)

2010-06-15T12:09:00.000-04:00

I must admit sometimes I feel a little like a spy…partly because I get emails that say “we need you on a mission to the Congo…you can expect a packet of information soon… you will depart in a week.” Followed by a request to overnight a secured package containing my passport, immunization records, and, of course, money to a seemingly obscure location in Washington, D.C. Then hours before my plane is to depart, my passport with a Congolese visa enclosed arrives to my waiting hand and then I’m quickly whisked off to the airport carrying but one bag with my essentials for a couple weeks stay in the heart of Africa. To think that Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego? was my favorite computer game as a child seems only too fitting.

The update: I was in Kinshasa, DRC (Democratic Republic of Congo) for a couple weeks with Operation Smile. Their 2nd mission to the Congo and mine as well. Despite sleeping on questionable bedding, taking cold showers, putting in 12+ hour days at the hospital (one that had no running water), eating the local delicacy of Mopani worms (crunchy outside, soft inside…kind of like a chocolate-covered ice cream bar but considerably less yummy), it was an absolutely incredible medical mission. Incredible. Incredible in part to the amazing team that assembled from 9 countries for the mission, but incredible mostly because of the Congolese people. Amazing, genuine, kind people.

As the mission schedule is usually set up, the first 2 days are strictly screening, then an education day, followed by 4.5 days of surgery, then post-op care. During the first day of screening after getting my screening station set up, I left in search of water only to be confronted by over 200 people gathered on the lawn, steps, floors of the hospital grounds. All waiting their turn to find out if they or their family member would be granted the free surgery to repair their cleft lip, cleft palate, cleft nose, or a slew of other facial deformities. As I wove my way through the mass of people, I began to hear “Maria, Maria” followed by an echo and more and more echos until finally I remembered that “Maria” is not a very common name in the Congo, and realized that, in fact, this echo of my name was actually directed at me. And then they began to sing “bebe e naya be ti o…”, a children’s song in the local tongue of Ligala - the same song I had learned a year ago and had gone around singing to anyone who was in need of laugh (because I can’t carry a tune, let alone in a language I don’t know). So despite knowing me but for a couple days 12 months ago, many of the returning patients and local volunteers remembered not only my face but my name and my sub-standard singing skills. As the week progressed, three times I was approached by mothers holding little babes only to learn that the mother had chosen to name the baby Maria in remembrance of me. And in a month’s time, there will be a 4th arriving (really hoping for the kid’s sake, it’s a girl). I was shocked. Touched. It was, it is completely humbling to realize that though your time with someone may seem minimal to you, to someone else that time with them can leave a lasting memory. A year ago, I just had no idea.

The statistics show that 156 people received the face and life-changing surgery, but from those couple of days, far more lives were humbled, touched, and changed.

Anyway, I could go on… but I will leave you with a video that was made from our trip. It’s just over 4 minutes, but the message is powerful. If you have a history of tearing up during commercials, get some tissues. Enjoy!

To the video - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z1BD8glsLxk

[Side note – you’ll notice in the video an older gentleman. He was 84 yrs old, outlived the region’s life expectancy by 40 years, and at 84 got the surgery he’d been waiting a life for (as he phrased it). He was under local anesthetic (so awake), on the operating table for an hour, and after receiving his final stitch, he raised his hands, looked to the sky to thank whatever god he believed in and then shook his surgeon’s hand. A memory that will surely outlive his life.]

From the voice of the Congolese to you, what I said to all my patients, “Oza kitoko.” You are beautiful.

July 12, 2009

2009-09-02T17:34:00.000-04:00

(a selection from my personal journal - my final day in Africa)

Here we are 1 year later. It's take off day. My hours remaining in Africa are numbered. I'm going home. Yet surprisingly enough, I'm rather ambivalent towards it all. It's as if I'm just spending the day shopping for socks. I don't know if my emotions are such because I find it all so natural or surreal. I think on my final flight home - the Chicago to Cincinnati stretch - I'll be peering out the window my thoughts calm enough, yet trying to capture the essence, the grandness, the something... in touching down on Ohio ground a year gone by. A year that has transformed me in ways that I have yet to discover. The journey is far from over.

back in the m.stein

2009-08-11T12:34:00.000-04:00

So here we are... Stateside. And here I've been since July 13th so I'm just a wee bit behind schedule with this post. I think jet lag and "just life" take the blame. I've read more than enough plotless yet utterly satisfying romance novels, caught up on all the High School Musical movies, acknowledged most family members and not enough friends, and have even managed to dislocate my knee cap over the weekend whilst dancing... (my doctors have requested footage of my "break" dancing). So I guess regardless of my location, life is never dull. Someday.

What's next you wonder? My African friends claim that I am an African in an American body... but much to their disappointment, my intention is stay Stateside for quite some time longer. It is good to be home. Good to be surrounded by such an amazing support network. Good to smell the sweet alfalfa scent in summertime... listen to country music... drive on the RIGHT side of the road... marvel at the Midwestern accent... sure I will miss Africa. I already do but Mama Africa is just going to have to take the back-burner for a little while longer. I will be back - but not today or tomorrow.

Today's game plan - solve the mystery of the TV... I can't seem to figure out how to switch it from DVD to TV mode... digital... analog... 20 remote controls... When did TV viewing get to be so complicated?

the Dark continent

2009-04-07T02:52:00.000-04:00

Ah... you know there are times in life where you just have to sit back and smile at it all. And have a good hearty laugh. A few months back during the monsoon season, I was caught in the pouring down rain, my windshield wipers had ceased to function (my car's engine was next), I was lost (as usual) and wound up seeking refuge (and geographical guidance) at the reception desk of what must be one of Africa's finest hotels. The Cardoso Hotel. Even has its own namesake street. They didn't provide the best directions (or I didn't follow them too well - plausible)... but I wound up back here again tonight. Just wanting a cup of hot chocolate. And a lovely view of the sun drifting down from the Maputo skyline into the Indian Ocean. No disappointment this time. Even a fleet of bats are out tonight. I didn't even know Maputo had bats...

I have been here 9 months. 9 months! Tonight I had to send an email out to the parents whose children I see weekly, giving them a kind heads up that in 6 weeks time I would be moving on. I recall over a year ago when I signed on to this crazy, wild African stint thinking then that when I returned from India (from my friend's wedding), I would be on the final leg of my African journey. And here it is. I don't think I'll be the hare or the turtle in this last leg. I think I'll keep moving forward like any other day just stopping more frequently to let my senses soak it in... hear the rush of the chapas go by, the swish-swish of the omnipresent broom-sweeping... see the geckos creeping up and down the tree, the kitchen wall, the back tire... smell the rubbish cluttering the streets... feel the warm sun of daytime, the crisp wind of night... taste the salty breeze... and hopefully capture and keep lasting memories of the many idiosyncrasies that make Africa the inviting but dark continent it is.

Beautiful, vibrant India.

2009-03-27T12:37:00.000-04:00

Ah, life. No complaints from my end. Well, except I just burnt squash for the second time this week. Carcinogens, yum. I was attempting to embrace the present season here - autumn. "Autumn" as in temperatures have dropped from the 90s to the 70s and sometimes at night I actually consider donning a jacket. I don't expect to see the leaves changing shades or falling anytime soon, though... a palm tree with no palm fronds... that would be a stranger site to behold than me willingly watching sports on T.V.

I recently returned from a trip to India - a fabulous journey but one with no fewer airport incidents than the last one. First upon attempting to check-in, I learned that my ticket had been canceled. Ever spent 2 days traveling to an airport only to find out that the ticket that you thought you had, you really didn't...? It all worked out in the end - a few extra dollars spent and an unexpected quantity of quality time braved in Mumbai (fun, crazy city with crazy people who enjoy traversing 5 lanes of traffic only to ask, well, demand that you join their Bollywood cast...). The only other airport incident occurred in the aforementioned crazy city... I wound up at the wrong airport. In my defense, I thought one would go to the domestic airport if they were flying domestically... but alas, my common sense doesn't quite jive with that of Indians apparently.

The trip was considerably less eventful after that. Saw lots of monkeys, a couple of elephants, no tigers, sampled sun-dried coconut gifted by a little village boy, consumed enough spicy food to keep my taste buds burning for weeks to come, attended a Hindu marriage ceremony (aptly described by someone as "My Big Fat Indian Wedding"), drank an exorbitant amount of chai... and yeah, just really enjoyed India, round 2.

Friday the 13th

2009-02-13T05:16:00.000-05:00

So 2 disturbing things have been brought to my attention today... 1) It is Friday the 13th - last night was a full moon, and 2) tomorrow is Valentine's Day (more aptly known as "Single Awareness" Day). Well, it just so happens that last weekend during my monthly trek to South Africa, I purchased a dress for my friend's upcoming wedding in India. A pink dress. Matching pink earrings. (Ran out of money before I could complete the ensemble with pink shoes.) I already have the restaurant picked out where I want to treat myself... a place with candlelit ambiance. I think I am rather looking forward to this Hallmark holiday.

Continuing with the pink theme... so for Christmas I requested a passport cover to protect my precious book from the daily wear and tear. Mom sent Dad on the mission to get me THE passport cover. Apparently at his place of purchase, he had 2 choices - blue or pink. I should probably mention that I really am not much of a pink person. The only request I had for my mother back in college when she was repainting my room was "whatever you do, no pink." I now have a "rose" bedspread... Anyway Dad's thought process was "Hmm, Maria = girl. Girl = pink." He got the pink, which isn't just any 'ol pink, it's in-your-face hot pink.

Like many fathers around Christmas, it wasn't before long that he got the you-messed-up speech and was about to brace the pre-Christmas chaos to make the exchange for a more suiting color cover, when he got a call from me. He confessed his error, I said no worries, I would just laugh now whenever I saw the pink eyesore in my bag. Well... last weekend in crossing the Moz/South Africa border, the pink passport earned me the name Pink Panther. The Mozambicans on my bus had quite the laugh from it... every border stop... "hey, 'Pink Panther' we need your pink identity..." One border patrol agent mistaking my pink passport for a fellow male passenger's commented "huh, so you like pink, eh?" The wrongly accused male responded, "No, not mine.... it's pink panther's" (and gestured towards me in the back seat).

And now I have a pink dress to match it. I think I'm turning a new leaf, embracing a section of the color wheel formerly overlooked....

Obama Inauguration...

2009-02-04T07:39:00.000-05:00

I receive a monthly email from the Mozambican Investor updating me on what's going on in and around Mozambique. Under their Over the Border section, they highlight international happenings. I thought you might enjoy what Africans took away from Obama's inauguration.... (and yes, there was a good contingent of Africans tuning in for the event - it made the front page news 2 days straight).

After Historic Inauguration - Obama Begins Remaking America
Barack Obama, Tuesday, January 20 made history by becoming the first black President of the United States of America. In front of historic numbers, over two million people who braved frigid temperatures to witness the official inauguration at the National Mall in Washington DC, President Obama called for a new era of responsibility in the US. Obama also used the occasion to call on a new order in relations between nations, especially relations with the Muslim world. "To the Muslim world, we seek a new way forward, based on mutual interest and mutual respect." With those words, Obama signaled a fundamental departure from the policies of his predecessor, George Bush. In direct reference to poor nations, Obama said: "To the people of poor nations, we pledge to work alongside you to make your farms flourish and let clean waters flow; to nourish starved bodies and feed hungry minds." (allafrica)

the Update

2009-01-29T12:44:00.000-05:00

So I've been trying to post for a month now, but well, the site has not been working in my favor. I realize it's probably more me than the site but anyway... (how can I teach a Mozambican how to copy DVDs on a computer but can't figure out how to use my own...?)

Some thoughts from the month...

(I'll begin posting backwards now, or is it forward...?)

January 27, 2009

2009-01-29T12:12:00.000-05:00

My dear friend (my "old shoes") who days ago peaced out of town recently sent me a text message willing me to "enjoy all the little things..."

My response...

I'm really enjoying all the little skeeter bites on my legs. I think I could connect the dots with them. Saturday night I went to the bar at the train station with my new flatmates, wore a skirt, and woke the next morning with pink polka-dotted legs. Hot, I know. I'm beginning to think that even the male mosquito population finds me attractive.

But in way of appreciating Mozambique for its little things... Last night (Sunday) wound up being a random but an oh-so-good random night. I went for a run and returned sweaty, many shades of pink, and in need of a couple of showers... and sure enough we had a visitor at the place, a new acquaintance, for whom my disheveled look would forever be my lasting impression. Good thing he had an alcoholic beverage in hand (beer goggles, they do serve a purpose). By the night's end, we were hanging out at the neighbors - true Mozambicans... Drinking the local brew (some sort of marula moonshine), girls downing shots of whiskey, guys doing the same with 'firewater' (apparently this is typical, some sort of 'cultural' thing)... all of us just sitting in a big circle listening to African blues, jams, vibes... eating, drinking, dancing, and truly getting merrier by the minute. It truly was just a fun, fun night. One of those, I can't believe I'm here, a part of this... Surrounded by people (and a language) I barely knew when the night began, a night that began with our visitor hearing the merriment from our 3rd floor flat, shouting down asking if we could join, and hours later leaving with an invitation to return for their next party - February 28th (a monthly festivity, apparently). So I'm appreciating Mozambicans for always keeping in mind the importance and know-how of having a good time. They may be considered lazy but not when it comes to partying. :)

Other little Moz-isms... Was eating at a relatively nice eatery this evening with my colleagues when the place went black.... moments later when electricity had returned, ABBA could be heard playing, followed by a Mariah Carey Christmas tune...

January 24, 2009

2009-01-29T12:07:00.000-05:00

Presently sitting at a Portuguese-style restaurant overlooking the Indian Ocean. A lovely view really. Mozambicans playing soccer on a sandbar, others selling their crafts, a fellow begging me to allow him to wash my car for 10 meticais (50 cents), and hopefully soon a plate of crepes smothered in ice cream before me. I just left the home of my best friend here. She just left on a plane bound for home. So obviously I have been in better spirits - hence the need for crepes and ice cream!

Every so often you're reminded of just how timing is everything - and that that time is precious. Just wishing that the reminder came a bit less frequently these days.

January 18, 2009

2009-01-29T12:04:00.000-05:00

Well back in Maputo, Mozambique, been back about a week. Initially, I had that high that everyone seems to have when spring finally rolls around after a long dreary winter. Too many farewells of late... saying goodbye to family & friends back home, saying goodbye to my best friend here in Moz, and hours ago said goodbye to the place I called home since my arrival in Moz.

I think I need to go for a run.

January 11, 2009

2009-01-29T11:53:00.000-05:00

as composed by a hyper-caffeinated drunk... spell-checked the next day. clarity admittedly questionable...

Not sure quite how the evening unfolded. It began innocently enough, sitting at an Irish pub drinking coffee (perhaps it was of the Irish variety...), perusing an Indian travel book and ending with a circumnavigation of the pub (no Tibetan prayer beads in hand) and somehow winding up in my present room... 3:42am. Caught between the soporific qualities of alcohol and a java-induced high. I do not welcome tomorrow.

Rewind... hours ago... 8pm-esque. Reading India travel book, a 2-week destination for a friend's wedding in March. Quite thrilled by this upcoming venture. Consuming the rare cup of joe (jet lag...). South African couple across the way taking an ever-growing interest in me, apparently confusing my India travel book for the Bible. Given the setting, the book's prodigious size and relatively fine print, the somber look upon my face - their curiosity understandable. A bible-toting gal at a bar isn't an everyday experience, I don't think. Granted INDIA capped, vibrantly-colored ubiquitously graced the cover of the book... but they'd already been well-acquainted with Jack Daniels long before I entered their line of vision. Blah, blah, blah... in short time, numbers exchanged, names written phonetically on hopefully an irrelevant ticket stub (accents really trip a person up)... one more shot of whiskey and we would've had the final chapter of my memoir composed. But alas final call came and went; the 'tap ran dry,' and the wife's languid tongue was beyond my scope of practice (the hubbie requested that I intervene with my esteemed clinical skills. A futile attempt, indeed, but an attempt made on the behalf of my profession, nonetheless. I refrained from John Hancock-ing my credentials when closing the tab.)

Twiddle-dee, twiddle-dum, I don't care for anymore rum...

(insert disclaimer here.)

January 9, 2009

2009-01-29T11:44:00.001-05:00

Couple days later... Hostel near Johannesburg, South Africa airport... flew in 12 hours ago

It is now 4am... I hear crickets. My laptop charger and its adapter are being propped up with the support of a wastebasket into the room's lone outlet. Listening to O.A.R.'s "Shattered." I hadn't heard the band on the radio for ages... and then a friend informed me it'd been playing since this summer. Oh... Presently trying to glean some wireless from the nearby airport. Having sporadic luck.

It's 9pm back in the States so instead of becoming more alert, I should be dozing off. However, I have this gnawing hunger ache that's keeping me up. Plus, I was so excited for fresh air that I forgot that in opening up the windows I was inviting the mosquitoes in for a feast. And the hostel doesn't serve breakfast until 7am. So my mind keeps drifting back to my favorite hole-in-the-wall Indian restaurant in Maputo. Despite its derelict appearance, it has the best chai tasted outside of India. The walls are bare save for a curious Arabic wall hanging. Tables and chairs are placed haphazardly about the room. A tiny Bollywood-tuned-in T.V. sits on the corner counter. The mostly male clientele lounge around as if everyday is Sunday. I like this place and what I wouldn't give for a cup of its chai right now. Warm, sweet, aromatic goodness.

In closing, from an O.A.R. song not played on FM wavelengths...

"Many days from now I'm sure

I'll be back among your faces

And with you I won't pretend

No, not at all..."

January 7, 2009

2009-01-29T11:16:00.000-05:00

In two short days, I'll be crossing the Atlantic ocean. As I consider packing right up there with domestic chores... procrastination inevitable... this post could be a doozy...

My high school social studies teacher found out I was home for the holidays (a true gem, he is) and before long I was spending a day at my alma mater speaking with freshmen and sophomores about my travels, the life experiences of a vagabond 25-year-old. And giving geography lessons - one of the first questions posed to me was... "What state is Mozambique in?" Luckily, social study teachers are well-endowed in the map department.

Some frequently asked questions, FAQs, if you will... (from a very "squirrely" population)

What is the weirdest thing you have ever eaten? Monkey apples - to my knowledge. The name sounds weird; the fruit looks weird and tastes a bit weird. They're like coconuts in that you have to crack them open in order to get to the good stuff under the shell. And of course, there have been a number of times I have consumed substances I had no clue what they were. Calamari and octopus in Moz are pretty tasty albeit chewy. Oxtail, common in Swaziland, sounds odd but is very good. Just ask our dog, he loves loves loves the leftover bones.

What languages can you speak? Fluently... only "American" English, been picking up key South African and British English phases, basic conversation in Portuguese, Spanish, and German. Handful of phrases in Tibetan, Hindi, Thai, Danish, Italian, French, and Afrikaans. Does American Sign Language count? And yes, I get them mixed up all the time! The better I become at speaking Portuguese, the worse my English becomes (particularly prepositions). In recent weeks, I have been blaming it on jet lag (like the other day when I told someone I could eat calamari but not squid... jet lag).

What do they speak in Africa? Depends where you are... in South Africa - Afrikaans and English. In Mozambique - Portuguese mostly, some Swahili in the north, Shangaan in the south. Malawi is French, Zimbabwe is English, Angola - Portuguese, Tanzania - Swahili, Arabic in northern countries, etc., etc.

What animals do you see? (in Africa) Lions, elephants, giraffes, zebras, warthogs, crocodiles, hippos, rhinos, a python (I screamed appropriately like a girl), wildebeest, nyalas, impalas, whales, clams, loads of seafood, lots of birds... my favorite animal to see is probably the giraffe. They're so awkward yet graceful when they run. Someday I hope to see a cheetah - that would top my list in a heartbeat (been mildly obsessed with the fast cat since grade school).

What's your favorite place? (I hate this question. Please never ask it.) Cape Town, South Africa is my favorite city. It's got ocean meeting mountains - awesome hiking and vistas, and vineyards comparable to Napa Valley just down the road. Very San Francisco/Austin-esque... even has its own version of Alcatraz... Robbin Island where Mandela spent his 27-year internment. Swaziland is my favorite country to unwind in AND to get Christmas gifts. Though Germany does have its Christmas markets and gluwein (warm wine, it's delightful).

What do you live in? A typical house. Just has more electrical, plumbing problems and geckos than the average American home. Live with a British nurse and her two children. Normal kids. Sometimes I wake up in the morning to the sound of Jade, the 7-year-old, singing along to the French songs on her I-pod shuffle. Other times she delights us with ABBA and high school musical selections, usually around the hour of oh, 5am. Her brother Tanguy has a penchant for pets. We still have the pig. The fish accidently perished when they were under my care. Oops.

How do you get around? In town, I have the "office" car. Between towns, I take buses. Taxis when need be.

What do you miss most? Decent-tasting milk. (Family & friends are assumed.) It comes in bulk, in boxes. Ugh. Try as I might, I cannot trick my tastebuds into tolerating it. I picked up calcium tablets while home. I get pretty excited about milkshakes these days. Oh, and chocolate FROSTYS!!!

What do you plan to do when this (African stint) is all said and done? My contract ends May 23rd. My brother is coming to visit so that takes me to about July. I have flirted with the idea of an overland Cape to Cairo trip (Cape Town, South Africa to Cairo, Egypt) but the global economic crisis has me seriously thinking otherwise. Presently thinking when I return to the States, it'll be to work in a hospital in the Midwest. I have never been much of a city person, yet I always wind up gravitating towards them. Must be some cranial wiring problem...

It's almost 2009...

2008-12-30T09:22:00.000-05:00

You would think being in Ohio one would be experiencing sub-freezing temperatures, but alas, I brought the warm weather with me. The other day it was up to 60 degrees! And then in true Ohio erratic fashion it was freezing rain the next day. So I'm still holding out for snow. I guess the man upstairs has yet to receive my 'let it snow, let it snow' memo.

Just been enjoying the $1.54 a gallon gas prices and traipsing all over the state to visit friends and family. Gotta love the holiday chaos... Soon we'll be welcoming 2009 with a bottle of Amarula - the nectar of elephants (or something to that effect) - that I lugged over from Africa.

Turkey time...!

2008-11-26T15:22:00.000-05:00

Lights aren’t on but somebody’s home… It was brought to my attention the other day that I have been a bit behind in correspondence. So tonight after catching a Grey’s Anatomy rerun (yes, they do have TVs in Africa), my plan was to sit down and catch up on unanswered messages. Two thoughts in and suddenly, my laptop screen became the only source of light in the house. I actually had to carry my laptop around the house so I could locate my cell phone – which typically serves as my flashlight during electrical outages (though attempting to locate eyeglasses in the dark with a mere cell phone light is no simple task…).

So tomorrow is Thanksgiving! How does one celebrate Thanksgiving in Maputo, Mozambique, you ask? Well to begin, I discovered butternut squash ravioli at the deli earlier in the week (tastier then you may think… though not quite up to pumpkin pie standards) and am presently enjoying the delicacy - albeit lukewarm and in the dark. Perhaps it’s to my benefit that I can’t see what I’m eating. Tomorrow though I’ll be enjoying the fact that I’ll be one of the few people in town on holiday, going horseback riding with a friend and her family, and ending the night with a motley crew of Americans. When it comes to holiday celebrations far from home, we're not too picky, any American is considered family on Thanksgiving.

Happy Thanksgiving to all!!

It's hot and muggy and... November?

2008-11-02T03:27:00.000-05:00

I cannot believe November is here! I remember when October arrived and I was in shock. By the time year 2009 arrives, I'll be left thinking someone gypped me a few pages in my calendar. Though I must confess, I'll be elated when December arrives - for I have a roundtrip ticket home! I'll celebrate my big 2-5 on Pearl Harbor Day here (quick, who knows their history?) and be on an Ohio-bound plane a week later. I can't wait for the temperature shock. I'll return to Moz just in time for the commencement of the rainy season (and the ensuing plethora of mosquitoes).

At present, someone is having a hey-day on the drums just down the street. I should be excited about this cultural experience but should this last too much longer it just may interfere with my sleeping hours. Unforgivable transgression. Not sure what the occasion is either. Even the pet pig and dog seem befuddled. They don't celebrate Halloween here and I doubt an Islamic holiday (the predominant faith) is the root of all this commotion. On random Fridays I've been seeing little parades but big enough to slow traffic. These Mozambicans, they're always celebrating something, always making excuses to party. Seriously. Their Saturday nights last until they go to church the next morning. Around 10ish or so they go to the discotheque, stay there 'til about 2am at which time they go to the after-party bar until 5am-esque (or maybe it's 7am...gives you an idea of my own stamina...), and then onto the after-after bar. Then you see all of them out on the beach Sunday afternoon, drinking their cold beer, loitering around the chicken braai (barbecue), and catcalling poor unsuspecting white girls.

Everyone stoked for election day?! Or perhaps stressed is the more fitting word. I have sent in 2 absentee ballots just in case one gets clogged up in the African postal system. The official absentee ballot was hand-delivered to me last week (courtesy of an American diplomat whose son I work with) and then I hand-delivered its return, directions read twice over to ensure I didn't lick in the wrong place (they're so particular with these things, one wrong step and it ends up in file 13 (that being the trash). I sent in the backup write-in ballot 2 weeks back, at which time I informed my mail courier the importance of the letter "muito importante." His response was saying "Bush" and making a machine gun gesture with his hands and then indicating "muito dinero" wiht his fingers. So apparently this African who survived decades of civil war in his own backyard (lasting up until 10 years ago), thinks we Americans spend a lot of money on war. How's that for insight? The South Africans I work with were pretty impressed with the bona-fide absentee ballot. I quote, "Wow, it's so official looking. And you can actually vote when you're out of the country? What an organized voting system you Americans have!" I suppose Florida's "hanging chad" fiasco is relatively minor compared to Zimbabwe's politics next door.

the Real diagnosis

2008-10-05T09:19:00.000-04:00

So I was at a baby shower this morning (apparently I’ve been here long enough to be invited to such gatherings) telling my friend about my massage experience (see earlier post) when my synapses started firing. Earlier this week I found a tick clung to my upper leg likely from my weekend in the woods. I pried it off, ended its life and briefly thought ‘oh, I hope I don’t come down with something.’ A few days passed. Not wanting to be a hypochondriac I blamed abysmal sleeping hours and dehydration for headaches and fatigue. Blamed the massage for feverish symptoms and achy legs and incoordination for increasing pain in the pelvic area. Well, well, well… within an hour of this conversation (and my friend witnessing my indifference towards a chocolate confection), we found ourselves hopping from one medical clinic to the next in search of a tick bite fever test. Then came the painful process of getting blood drawn. I am cursed with tiny veins, so tiny that the Red Cross always turns me away when I want to give blood, so add a lesser qualified individual to the mix and ouch… meanwhile with each jab I’m thinking about the prevalence of AIDS (or SIDA as it’s known here) and praying that the needles are properly sterilized. I’ve been assured that they are but still… I was tested for malaria and tick bite fever and the verdict received an hour indicated the latter – yep, a parasitic bite, full blown African tick bite fever a cousin to Rocky Mountain spotted fever. A round of antibiotics and days of sleep and I should be trading in my present-sloth habits for energizer bunny-like qualities. Combined American and local remedies (as gifted to me by friends) have included chicken & pumpkin soup, mango juice, honey, a dark chocolate bar, and puppy kisses. The illness by the way can be best described as having a bad hangover 3 days straight and wishing you could walk with one leg (the bit, infected leg makes walking a painfully unpleasant endeavour).

In other news… I have a car to drive now!! So one small step for global warming, one giant leap for my independence! I have nearly mastered left-side driving, driving the wrong way down ill-marked one way streets, and receiving honks whilst conquering this foreign driving concept of round-a-bouts (but significantly less in volume compared to India, the honking that is). More importantly, I have learned that red stoplights, especially in the early a.m. hours, should be observed as 4-way stops. Due to habit, I was sitting at red stoplights for like a good 5 minutes, no sign of traffic in town, just waiting, waiting, waiting… and my boss was wandering why it took me so long to get to work in the morning… I was quickly enlightened of the “stop, look for police, if none, then go” policy. Now I mainly slow down for speed bumps, large potholes, and people who appear to have a blind spot for moving vehicles (hmm, kinda like Miami students).

Stay well, get well... take care.

playing catch-up

2008-10-04T10:58:00.001-04:00

I noticed that I’ve been lagging in communication…
Here are a few posts from the archive that didn’t get the publish nod initially…

9/28/08

It's been a something-kind-of- month. Words -English, Portuguese-Shangaan-or otherwise -elude me. I can't even seem to find music these days to fit my mood. Aye aye aye. So two weeks ago, about 3 now around 9/11, my grandmother had a stroke. The kind that knocks you straight into a coffin. Except she held on for 2 weeks. I received news by email from my father. Receiving such news is never good timing. For me it was mid-day just prior to the arrival of a client. So I held on saw the client through and then made it an early night at work, went home, downloaded and used Skype for the first time to make the call home. I was close to my grandmother; she is much to blame for my traveling ways. I think she owned and could quote every National Geographic from 1950 onward. One of the few who could longitudinally/latitudinally locate Mozambique without a blink of the eye. And probably the last person to receive a postcard from me. Hearing and now dealing with the news of her impending and subsequent death I can only liken to an experience I had as an 8 year old. Somehow that year my family came about acquiring a skateboard. One of those used but new-to-you toys. I remember getting on it thinking how cool I was, moving not terribly gracefully but moving forward nonetheless and suddenly, no warning, WHAM on my back, wind completely knocked out of me. I stumbled over to my dad who asked what had happened. And though I knew exactly what happened, I could say absolutely nothing. The words had been knocked out of me. I could only gesture. That gesture led to my father taking the skateboard out with the trash. The analogy continues with my siblings becoming upset with me and then me becoming more so, etc. So I must confess if I haven't already, it's been a rather difficult 2 weeks. Luckily there have been some distractions. Last weekend, I took an 8 hour road-trip to Durban, South Africa for a rugby match. We had a fun time in spite of (or perhaps because of) the pouring down rain as we played. This past weekend was spent in Swaziland at an oh-so-much-needed-tranquil game reserve. One of the few in Africa in which one is allowed to walk freely among the animals. There are no lions, rhinos, elephants, or hippos in the park...whew. One only needs to be wary of crocs, black mumbas (southern africa's most aggressive and poisonous snake), and foul-mood warthogs. I saw all 3. Limbs and sanity still intact. Blood pressure still wavering. While I wish I were home right now, watching the leaves begin to change and being with my family, I still recognize the reasons for being here. Solace in my surroundings is hard to find but lately I've been discovering some diamonds in the rough, in myself. So I wait until Christmas to be reunited in my family when holiday time and funds are more accommodating.

------

Today marks the day of my grandmother’s funeral. Being part of a family that’s so close, though no longer geographically, it’s difficult for me to grasp my inability to be part of such significant family function, the celebration of my grandma’s life. In some ways, I think my present grieving state stems more from my distance than my grandmother’s passing. Or perhaps her death was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I think I was emotionally exhausted long before I received news of her sudden illness. Leaving “home” at 5:30am and returning at 9:30pm does little to keep a person rejuvenated. At least now when I ooze with emotion, I have something more animate to lay blame to. Death warrants tears and tissues, tiring of a workaholic lifestyle apparently does not.

-----

9/7/08

Tashi delek, bom dia!! I suspect you are all alive and well and perhaps downing your share of foreign-labeled beer. FYI, the brand of Mozambique is Laurentina. You even see old geezers playing checkers (with blue and red beer tabs) on recycled Laurentina cardboard boxes. I made the mistake once of ordering it in South Africa and got the look I get when I try to speak Portuguese to taxi drivers. Then again I also receive perplexed looks when I ask for water in South Africa. Apparently, British English is the only accepted English accent this part of the world. And to think that I'm suppose to be the speech therapist! I'm the one forever being enlightened as to the 'proper' way of saying things, particularly by my Brit housemate, i.e.:

- tea = the beverage as well as the evening dinner (learned through a very confusing conversation, something to the effect of me trying to convey that caffeine at 8pm is not conducive to sleep and my housemate countering that you sleep better with food in your tummy…)
- see you now = see you later
- see you now now = see you soon
- in a trice = in a minute
- midnight feast = late evening snack filled with sugary sweets
- robot = stoplight
- nappy = diaper
- Dutchmen = well-rounded men (physically) who fancy hunting, wearing 2-toned shirts, and consuming excessive amounts of alcohol whilst watching rugby. They consider chicken a vegetable (description based on true stories).
- loo = restroom
- jersey = coat/jacket
- vest = sleeveless/tank top

Frequent use of "keen" and "lovely" comparable to the adolescent usage of "like."
"Quite" replaces 'really.'

"If you're KEEN, you can ask your friend to go with us to the beach. It's quite LOVELY this time of year." "I think she was quite KEEN on going next week with her family. They are LOVELY people."

When I was in India this past summer one of my professors had flip flop paranoia (called "slops" here) Well…. Healthcare 101. If you have a cut on your foot, ugly or not, cover 'em up. My friend's foot was swollen, a tad on the warm side, in pain, yet she was convinced it was from 'walking on it funny.' Foot with cut + swollen appearance + warm to the touch = INFECTION! If you ever find yourself matching this equation and you're in a 3rd world location (Miami's Student Health Center may fit this description), soak your foot in salt water (bucket of warm water + good dosage of salt, i.e. 1 cup), dry, put honey on gauze over the wound to draw out the infection (bacteria like honey), then find the nearest healthcare provider and get yourself on an antibiotic and don't don the "slops!" I may be a hypocrite by sporting flip-flops daily but my feet are at least laceration-free…

the African definition of a "massage"

2008-10-03T18:45:00.000-04:00

Ouch. Ugh, I thought massages were suppose to make you feel better not induce further agony. My calves are experiencing charlie-horse like symptoms and my neck is in want of pain killers. I should've learned my lesson in Thailand. In Africa, apparently a massage goes something to the effect of.... you waltz in, in my case, wanting some unwinding-Friday relaxation...the masseuse strips you of your clothing save for a little loin cloth thingey...turns on some African vibes...puts this, I swear it's piri-piri (hot sauce), lotion on you (it's laced with something with a kick - cayenne, jalapeño?) and then spends the next 60 minutes brutalizing every tender spot in your body. And because the little masseuse ladies speak only the local African tribal language of Shangaan they don't seem to pick up on Portuguese/English expressions (or are masochistic) for 'stop' 'OW!' or subtle hints of me inching away from their digging claws. 3 hours later I can still feel the heat emanating from my body and my legs are feeling very whiny. If it wasn't for the gecko that stalks my bathroom floor, I would consider its cool floor a resting place for the night’s slumber. Though I suppose that would lend to other achy ailments. 2 months shy of celebrating my quarter-century mark and I'm already facing hot flashes and arthritic pains! The traditional African healer I saw a few backs did not foresee this – that or chose not to deter me from my encounter with hot, pain-inducing massages. A real African treat for the “Gringo.”

my Postal address

2008-09-12T12:21:00.000-04:00

Due to popular request, my postal address...

Maria Wellman
Private Bag X11340
Suite 566
Nelspruit
South Africa
1200

To my knowledge it costs 94 cents to mail a letter. I don't have the opportunity to check my mail very often (last time followed a 2 month drought) but I get excited nonetheless by the prospect of it. I don't think there are any rules against what you can send though perishable items and weapons of mass destruction I don't recommend. Moz has enough land mines. I do welcome mixed CDs (presently in a Norah Jones mood) but enjoy all varieties (try to refrain from Hanson and Clay Aiken-types). I could really go for some cocoa (bittersweet powdery kind) as I came up shy when trying to make chocolate no-bakes tonight. A former staple of my diet despite its diabetes-inducing qualities. Also like books (minus those from the depressing genre). :)

Far Far Away Land

2008-09-11T03:03:00.000-04:00

Feeling very far from home this week. I can get on Skype and not miss a moment with my sister but navigate my way back to the States for my grandmother's funeral takes a full 2 days. And a lot of money. Distance makes the heart grow fonder and death is a not-so-subtle reminder of that.

Ironically, it's September 11th.

the Winds of Africa

2008-09-06T11:25:00.000-04:00

Last night was so windy I thought the wolf was going to blow the house down. For once I was quite glad I had glasses to keep the sand from blowing into my eyes. At rugby, a friend's face was streaked with tears from the unpleasant sand-in-the-contacts combo. By the night's end, I had a captive audience for my tornado tales. Apparently, they are uncommon on this side of the ocean. My 8 year-old housemate's son has concluded that driving into a tornado would be like riding a roller coaster, complete with swirls, upside down spirals and stomach-lurching drops. His sister and mum were thinking otherwise.

Excitement abounds!

2008-09-03T15:22:00.000-04:00

Multiple reasons to be happy today.... 1) We have water again (after a 3-day hiatus) and 2) I figured out to post pictures!!!

Outward Travels

2008-08-23T10:46:00.000-04:00

So today’s highlights have been making Coca-Cola with my housemate’s son (yes, I have THE secret recipe), chasing after the family’s pet pig with a spray bottle (not sure why), discovering a nutella-esque substance in the pantry, and a 2-hour energy-depleting, joint-stiffening induced rugby practice. The big Kwa-Natal vs. us meager Mozzies match is just 3 weeks away and I have missed a number of practices and co-ed games due to my soul’s traveling nature.

Two weeks ago I went to Cape Town, South Africa for a 10-day holiday with my housemate, my colleague and her significant other. We saw and did much. Cape Town is just divine, truly a gem of Africa. The city situated between mountains and ocean has a very San Francisco feel. Curvy streets, sublime views, funky fashion, seals in the bay, and lovely vineyard to the north. We gave our palates a test in the vineyards. Mine has yet to differentiate between effervescent fruit flavors and underlying dark oak tones. I can however differentiate between a merlot and a dessert wine! Sorry, I disappoint wine connoisseurs everywhere.

Most entertaining though I think was recognizing how a mere month in Moz had me thinking differently in South Africa. For one, going to the grocery store was like walking into a SuperWalmart for the first time. I would pick up one item go two steps down the aisle and realize there was something even better, set aside the former item, pick up the dazzling new one and continue my quest leaving a Hansel & Gretel like trail about the store. I forgot how good croissants could be (until the 7th morning when I realized mixing up the breakfast options might be a good idea). I was also amazed by the roads. If we ever tried to drive that quickly on a Moz road, we would have a) been crashed into by someone possessing actual driving skills b) incurred whiplash and/or a concussion c) lost a tire and/or other important parts d) gotten to our said destination at the appointed time (a first).

But it’s good to be ‘home.’ Life has a little more character and suspense around here even if it means taking cold showers and forever having black-bottomed feet.

A Pig's Feast

2008-08-08T04:25:00.000-04:00

So does anyone have any idea what to feed a pig? Moments ago I was pathetically devouring the last of the peanut butter when I heard what sounded like a man coughing up his last lung. At first I thought the sound was coming from upstairs (creepy) before realizing that it was outside but quite close outside. So with near-empty peanut butter jar in hand (a very choice weapon), I cautiously followed the sobering sound. Only to happen an ugly, hairy, and at present, hungry little pig, which I think may be the much-rumored about pet of my host brother who is gone for a number of days (along with the rest of the fam). As sleep would be welcomed this evening, I'm open for pig-caring suggestions. Presently, he's been served the dwindling and beginning-to-smell remnants of the fruit bowl (apple, tangerine-esque fruit, and lemons).

This past weekend I took a breather from city life, heading north about 2 hours to stay with a friend who essentially lives in sugarcane fields. In way of cities, Maputo is a fabulous cultural mecca, but in way of me, I fancy crickets chirping, bullfrogs croaking, and cruising on red sandy roads. So to the 'country' I went. My friend is an accountant in Xinvane a little village that has emerged from the surrounding sugarcane job beacon. Sugarcane fields stretch far. Since sugarcane is processed after it is burnt there's always a stream of smoke coming from some land in the distance. Always traces of black bits on your car, plants, undersides of your feet. Before being harvested sugarcane stretches higher than corn (complete with the tassle-like decoration on top) and is so thick that I doubt any movie would portray someone running through it. I chose to run alongside the fields. Afterwards learned from a rather astute 8 year old that big snakes lurk in the cane fields. I think his exact words were, "Snakes aren't very polite to people who wander into their hangout." He then proceeded to whip out his little hand ax and chopped a stalk for me to taste. Mildly sweet, chewy like celery. Since the cane fields are at the convergence of two rivers, we attempted to go fishing nearby. Unfortunately, the locals outsmarted us, 'illegally' placing nets that stretched across the river, literally preventing any sign of life to pass through to our bread-bated fishing poles. So we wound up packing our kayaks and headed east for the beach that bordered an Indian Ocean inlet. It was a nice relaxing weekend, an eye-opener to how most Moz natives live, and a mere introduction to how beautiful, vast and diverse the place I now call home is. Learning what villages sell the best cashews...counting the guiness-record-setting number of passengers that squeeze into a chapa ("taxi")...witnessing Zionist baptisms (wow)...identifying my first 'Jesus' bird (this bird really does walk on water)...scrounging grocery shelves for fleeting traces of the only imported chocolate - Cadbury (my palate is getting spoiled, my cash flow not-so-much)...drinking real fruit juice (so real that to be honest i have to add water for my formerly-diluted-not-yet-acclimatized tastebuds)...

But the real learning experience has been in the working-world. Work hard, play hard. I easily put in 10 hour days. There are so many people needing services and so few resources that my day quickly fills up just meeting with families. It's heartbreaking and exhausting. My job in and of itself is a complete switch from what I was doing in the States. Back home, my clinical experience was primarily working in acute-care hospitals with adults suffering from neuro-cognitive injuries (strokes, gunshot wounds, traumatic brain injuries). Here the focus is early-intervention. So I'm in the home working with the family, in the school working with the teachers, and in a private practice for those in between. Last week we had a promising meeting with an orphanage director. A literacy program is in the works. Fingers-crossed. But the schools here, ugh... I visited a 'special needs' school last week. 3 rooms, solidly built but decaying furniture, walls completely bare save for chipping paint. The kids arrive at school in the morning, eat a meal, are sometimes supplied with crayons so they can scribble. Little to no activities are planned. They have lunch by 11:30 and then the next 3 hours serve essentially as "nap time." The television is turned on, the kids are handed magazines (no variety) as if they need to perfect their 'flipping-the-page' skills. It's a shame. Some of these kids are really quite intelligent, quite creative. The same ones that typically act out and cause behavioral problems because they're so bored. Then there's the expat community that we serve, the children of diplomats. Therein lies another issue. Many of these children have well-educated parents who want to save the world through their NGO or diplomatic connections but then fall short in recognizing the importance of being a parent. I am no parent but I think acknowledging the needs of your child is an integral part of being a good one. Putting a bandaid on a wound from years of neglect isn't what I do, trying to get a child's family involved in their learning is. My ability to do so is a work in progress as is diplomatically reminding parents that they have children… (still tweaking the family-friendly phrasing on that one). Of course, there are the parents that are absolutely fabulous and inspiring and should grace the cover of some 'parenting for dummies' book. My favorite is probably the Indian mom who always has something cooking on the stove when I arrive (and the verbal recipe in tow) and is a team leader in her child's life.

So in a nutshell, from 2 weeks worth of work, that's the gist of what I do.

If time allows, I'd love to get a research project going but… sleep isn't too terribly overrated.

Anyway, thanks to all who have sent me messages. If you made it this far in one sitting, I am duly impressed. To be honest my right foot has fallen asleep, tingling sensations in my left foot are in quick pursuit (a sign of how thrilling I find myself). Despite my slumberous state, I thought it best to send (what I thought was going to be) a quick update before I depart for a 10-day holiday to Cape Town. We're trying to write it off as a work trip by setting up an observation with some autism expert but really we just wanted an excuse to let loose (i.e., sky-diving, a wine & bike tour?, cage-diving with sharks…). So just saying hey while all my faculties are still intact! Haha, well, take care all. Oh and keep me posted on the Olympics!

Bom dia (a Portuguese hello)!

2008-07-20T13:36:00.000-04:00

Temperatures have warmed up a bit. A week ago I was walking about the house clothed in 3 layers and a blanket for a cape downing copious amounts of hot chocolate in efforts of warming myself and now I sit outside in the half sun in a mere t-shirt (and pants, of course, rolled up in capri-like fashion, secured in place with the ever-functional safety pin). Apparently, it's quite humid here in Maputo, given its ocean-side location, though I never notice it the level of humidity until I don new clothing in the morn - clothing that's always a smidge on the damp side (NO, there's no mold lurking in the crevices of my clothing - but sand, YES!) In the shade it's always cool, in the sun refreshingly warm. It gets dark about 5:30 pm (it's winter) and reportedly light out around 4ish am. No idea about the latter. Getting my beauty sleep in while I can.

Btw, I'm 2 for 2 in converting Brits to hot chocolate. Imported Nestle is quite the seductive, magical mix... if nothing else, hot chocolate will be my footprint left on Moz's red, sandy soil.

So I alluded to the popularity of rugby in my last message. Expect many more such allusions as I am now on a Moz rugby team. Ha, ha, ha... (nervous laugh). Apparently, my history of bruises, severed bones, junior high flag football scars marks me as the optimal rugby player. I merely went to watch a game on the beach and found myself in practice at the crack of dawn the next morning. Seriously, I do not exaggerate. So now Saturday mornings find me practicing lateral backward passes whilst dodging wayward, curly-haired children and seaweed clumps along Maputo's seascape. Our first big (female) tournament game is in Durban, South Africa in 2 months. Local co-ed games take place 4pm every Friday. Girls-only TBD. I'll likely arrive home shy a few teeth. But the rugby crew is a good one. A kaleidoscope of ethnicities - South African, Zimbabwean, Irish, American, Mozambican, British... etc., etc. So playing is a comedy of errors. Yesterday, a South African kept shouting, "Ford, Ford" and finally I had to stop the game and ask what the heck "Ford" was (given the context, the automobile definition seemed unlikely). Apparently, "Ford" is "forward." Haha, oops... Sorry, guys, someone has to keep the "stupid American" stereotype prospering.

So it would probably be a disservice to you guys if I continually painted a pretty picture of life in Maputo...Mozambique... Africa. Don't misunderstand me, I am enjoying my place here but like anywhere there are pros and cons. Being that I reside in a city of 2 million people, a city surrounded by barrios of poverty, crime is on the rise. I spent much of last week exploring the city with a sketch-of-a-map, keys, and phone in pocket only to find out over the course of the weekend through acquaintances that Maputo isn't the safest place for such traipsings. So while I survived a summer hanging in Over-the-Rhine (with subsequent paranoia), I will have to be a bit more cautious gauging the distance of shadows before me and perhaps (ok, will) curb my independent spirit. And take my host fam's big white dog with me on morning runs. This said, the Mozambique natives are very friendly, often saying hello and offering an even bigger smile when you respond. And the street vendors, beggars here are like no other I have encountered. All you have to do is say no and they leave you alone. None of this following you like a puppy dog nonsense. Why the other day some guy tried selling me sunglasses (what's a city without the token "bona-fide Oakley" seller?), which I didn't want. Instead, I was searching for a taxi and told him as much so he directed me to where I could find one, kindly leading the way for a block-and-a-half and then upon seeing that I was safely in a taxi, he returned to his sunglasses-selling-stand.
A city of contradictions.

THE cloth of fashion

2008-07-16T10:44:00.000-04:00

So I'm a bit of a texture freak... (as evidenced by my inability to consume fizzy drinks)... so Mindy (the Moz colleague who is working her charm to detain me here indefinitely) took me capanola (sp.?) shopping today. Capanolas are to southern Africa as saris are to India. Typically of a cotton blend, capanolas are essentially a sheet of fabric about a meter or so in length (you do the conversion) and are the epitome of multi-purpose functionality, serving as beach towels, skirts, table cloths, thingey-carrier, etc., etc. And they come in all colors, designs, and TEXTURES! So I was just having the most fun today hitting up all sorts of street stands feeling and checking out all these fabrics. Some are soft and thin, others are starchy and sturdier. And the coolest part is trying to identify where the capanola originates from as evidenced by the design. Some designs are made by using wax (think Easter egg dyeing) as seen in Tanzania, others with a flour paste (Zambia/Zimbabwe), indigo dye (Nicaragua), I forget Swaziland, and in Mozambique the design is big plaid. And IF there's a big central design (i.e. picture of the prez), upon wrapping it around your bottom in a skirt-like fashion, the design supposedly always ends up gracing (and drawing attention to) your arse. Neat. Given this, mine are making for very nice curtains.

Moz at last

2008-07-15T04:07:00.000-04:00

So with jumping time zones and oceans and whatnot, I've kinda lost track of time but I'm thinking about 2 months ago I was in India dodging malarial mosquitoes, amoebic dysentery, and sandstorms. So not much has changed for me. ;) Btw, I'm alive and functioning quite well. I've been in Africa about a week now, Mozambique almost 2 days. Temperature check 68 degrees Fahrenheit.

I spent the better part of last week in the Kruger game reserve which covers the expanse of the South Africa, Zimbabwe, Mozambique, and Swaziland borders. Amazing sightings. Elephant, giraffes, impalas, zebras, wildebeest, warthogs, rhinos, hippos, crocs.... so close that you could quite literally put your hands between their snappers (not highly recommended). Unfortunately, the big cats were playing hide and seek. I could only spot lions with my binoculars - which was close enough for me. Any closer and I probably would've peed my pants!

Other news... I have committed my first felony (I think). "Dog trafficking." While we (my colleague Mindy and I) were in South Africa, she bought a puppy. A weiner dog better known as a "sausage" dog in this part of the world. Apparently crossing borders with animals is a big no-no and one is forced to pay huge bribes to get the job done. So when we arrived at the Moz border, Mindy got all the crossing-the-border paperwork done while I went 'for a walk' with the pup hidden in a blanket. Mission accomplished. The smuggled puppy is safe and sound in Moz and I sleep well at night (barring jet lag interferences).

South Africa reminded me very much of the States (except their way of thinking), their cities resembled any other American or European city, while Mozambique is considerably different. Much poorer, obviously. In Maputo the capital city where I live there are about 4 roads that are decently paved, the rest are dirt, gravel, or a sketched paved job at best. Some road construction is occurring due to the impending elections. Gotta snicker when it comes to presidential election year projects. I hear Bush has plans for offshore oil drilling in the states... Grocery stores here are kinda like potluck. One day you have a surplus of mangos but a bleak supply of milk, the next day it's bread and berries, so the grocery store stock dictates the meal of the week. I brought my host family chocolate chips from the states and they thought it was Christmas in July! Apparently, chocolate chips are a rare commodity even in South Africa. For shame, my sweettooth may take a hit. Rugby is all the rage. Then again I live with a Brit. Though Maputo is a beautiful city, there's loads of rubbish about the streets. Mozambicans do not plan for the future and recycling is even more of a bizarre concept than American baseball. Our attempt at recycling is drinking filtered water from emptied liquor bottles. (Yes, it's quite comical to take a huge swig of water from a Jack Daniels bottle.) We have a maid. It's not that we need a maid but rather that it provides a job for a Mozambican. So either you donate the money to some nonprofit and the country gets half of it or you have a maid and they get it directly, 100%. We have a nice little system. I put my dirty clothes in the laundry basket (it's dusty here, white socks, what?!) and by the days end, it's clean, folded, and atop my freshly made bed. We also have a language exchange system going. I teach her English, she teaches me Portuguese. "Bon dia!" (good morning). The kids (age 7 & 9) that I live with are also aiding on the language front. They're multilingual with countless passports. Their mother is British, their father American, their stepmother Dutch, their school is French.... they speak English (Brit & American accents as needed), Dutch, French, Portuguese and have likely picked up some Afrikans (South Africa) and Swahili (Tanzania) in their travels. Needless to say, I am fascinated and jealous. And having a difficult time transcribing their speech.... ;)

Well, much exploring awaits...!

Bound for Africa

2008-07-07T07:26:00.000-04:00

Well, I am almost out the door to Africa. Quite literally as all my tickets indicate that today is the day I leave. So before I go, I thought it best to wrap up a loose end, a few final words from my Tibetan experience in India.
Here is an excerpt from my journal dated 5/21/2008...

"I'm emotionally exhausted. Day after day speakers, reputable ones from the Secretary of this to the Secretary of that, individuals who work closely with the Dalai Lama, including an individual who was part of the delegation to China 2 weeks ago. Day after day, they tell their story, the plight of the Tibetan people. It's harrowing and horrific. The human rights violations cannot be denied. Having a voice means life imprisonment, taking pictures = 10 years. People are shot/killed, women sterilized against their will, others forced off their land under the guise "that their farming has caused erosion and floods" then the Chinese build shops where fields of sorgham once were. Phone lines in monasteries are tapped. Never mind the number of monasteries that have been destroyed since the Chinese occupation. Individuals who speak to the media "disappear." With the construction of a road connecting Beijing to Lhasa, Han Chinese are being shipped in by the thousands. The Chinese outnumber the Tibetans on Tibetan soil 7.5 million to 6 million people. Chinese is the language of instruction in schools not Tibetan, not the native and known language of the people. Not surprisingly, literacy rates among the Tibetans hovers around 25% (or 40% as the Chinese claim). In the markets in exchange for goods, natives must speak the langauge of their invaders. Pictures of the Dalai Lama must not be seen and words of him and his 'clique' not heard. It's cultural genocide. It's sad and it's happening and I don't see an end in sight. At least not an optimistic one.

The Tibetan people are one of such graciousness and warmth. When running one day, I, for just a moment, lost my way (imagine that... :) and a Tibetan woman directed me to the path. Not a word was exchanged (except many thank yous from my end) just a knowingly pointed finger. Another day a group of us were shopping in town when it began to rain. A woman ushered us over to provide us with plastic bags for formely purchased paper-wrapped goods. Once more no words were exchanged, just a smile and what seems to have become my favorite phrase "tu che" (thank you)..."

And now I begin my next journey...

Back in the m.stein

2008-06-08T01:54:00.000-04:00

It's pitch black outside and my body thinks it is time to rise and shine. Despite pep talks, my body refuses to recognize that we are no longer on Indian time. However, it does readily accept bowls of ice cream with hot fudge topping (evidence is noticeable on my shirt) and slices of strawberry shortcake immersed in the decadence of cool whip (Brian's birthday cake...mmm mmm). So you could say that I made it home safe and sound and in culinary terms am adjusting well. My luggage however... is MIA (missing in action). Once my luggage finds its way home, I am hoping to post entries from my journal since I was unable to keep you posted while in Asia due to the poor access to functioning Internet.

And then before long (a month to be exact), I will be out the door again. Mozambique beckons.

Tashi Delek (a Tibetan hello)

2008-05-21T04:53:00.000-04:00

Well, well, well... so I finally got my act in gear. A posting from the depths of the Himalayans. Internet here is intermittent at best ~ that's my excuse. (Never mind the naps and the bubble-blowing fun with the Tibetan young 'ins).

I have been in foreign lands for a good week and a half now but it feels longer. Much longer. I have seen many beautiful things, tasted many strange things (dragon fruit, anyone?), and have felt a range of emotions from the exultant high of seeing the Taj Mahal in all its glory to the heartache of witnessing the plight of Tibetans. And the latter, latter for which I am at present feeling admittedly a bit emotionally exhausted.

Presently, the crew (approximately 15 students) is staying at the Sarah Institute a Buddhist monastery in the hills of the Himalayas near Dharamsala, seat of the Tibetan government in exile. Our schedule for 2 weeks goes something to the effect of....

6:30am - Rise and shine!

7:30-8:30 - Meditation

8:30-9:00 - Breakfast

9:00-10:00 - Buddhist Philosophy class

10:30-11:30 - Tibetan guest speakers

12:30 - 1:00 - Lunch

Afternoon activities vary - shopping trips, bookstore/library browsings, visiting the Children's Village (home of Tibetan refugee children), hikes, napping...

6:00-7:00 - Yoga (imagine a Buddhist monk in a red jumpsuit... ;)

7:00-7:30 - Supper

Evenings activities vary... Tibetan documentary viewings, open mike on the rooftop, downing a handful of Benadryl and calling it a night (last night's choice...jet lag).

Well, I have much much more to say but I shall wait for a day when Internet connection returns (along with my patience).

Kale shuko!!

(a Tibetan 'goodbye')

foreboding jet-lag

2008-04-14T17:10:00.000-04:00

Today's big purchase ~ my ticket to Africa. Total time, if my calculations are correct... 34 hours in transit. The things I do to save money. I guess sanity is expendable ;)

Depart: July 7, 2008 @12:27pm

(Dayton-Atlanta-D.C.-Doha (Qatar)-Johannesburg)

Final Arrival: July 9, 2008 @ 5:25 am

Good thing I can eat, sleep, and read anywhere. I hope?

2008-04-09T14:40:00.000-04:00

In recent weeks, I have been wishing that my passport could be cloned. I fear I am going to find myself in Kazakhstan before the international embassies sort out the who, what, when, where of me.

First off in May & June, I will be completing a research project with the Tibetan Ministry of Health meaning I'll be high-fiving the Dalai Lama, striking a few yoga poses, and dodging some local scuffle. Mission best accomplished if my face doesn't wind up gracing the cover of the NY Times.

Then to bring an answer to my father's looming question regarding job prospects, yes indeed I will put my college education to use. Not in Ohio, the U.S., or even in a country where English is a native language. Nope. Maputo, Mozambique - or "Moz" as the locals say (as told to me by a non-local). I will be collaborating with the country's lone speech therapist (in a country that's twice the size of California, nearing 20 million populates). The native language is Portuguese with some tribal languages thrown in just for fun. Due to its port location, Arabic, African, Portuguese, Asian cultural influences abound... and elephants, cheetahs, giraffes, zebras are just a backyard away.

In a month I'll be graduating, in 2 months returning from Tibet, and in 3 months stepping foot on African soil. Much to do.

My schedule as I know it....

May 10: Commencement

May 11-June 7: Thailand, India, Tibet trip

(Home in the m.stein for a month)

July 7: Mozambique... (First stop ~ Kruger National Park in South Africa)

Cheers!